"That wouldn't've stopped me," he counters, half sing-song, hobbling in past Neal and making a beeline for that couch whether he's herded there or not. He's panting softly, sweating, and in no rush of his own to taunt the lead-weight tied to his limbs. He can't just collapse into the couch. That's infuriating. But Tim makes like slipping off the crutches is no biggie (it isn't) and like awkwardly, precisely lowering his tush to kiss the seat isn't killing him inside (and out).
Remind him why he's wearing a hoodie on a warm day, again?
He rolls his shoulders. Settles for staring up at the ceiling, because this moment of utter denial is going to come to a close soon isn't it?
--not on his watch.
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks," he lazily replies. Eyes closed. He's thirsty, but if he drinks then he'll have to pee, and that's also not gonna happen if he can hold it.
"I'm going to cash in on that favor now," he decides. And maybe he's already nodding off, what of it. "Don't let'm freak out too much about it. It's fine."
Sleep is a blessed, beautiful thing. It's why Tim can never get it.
He jolts awake, heart beating like fists pounding at his hollow chest, eyes wide and wild. But he's frozen, for a moment, so many things wrong with the picture ahead of him that he's forced to remember his training.
Blinking himself awake (ish), Tim scrambles to twist himself in the seat. A mess of hair obscures his sight, there's a burnstingpush where his leg isn't, and Tim peers at Malcolm, his body effectively hidden from... immediate scrutiny.
Rice Crispies, Neal notes, in that part of him that's always listening for the things that will make people happy. He puts a hand on Tim's shoulder instinctively to communicate it's okay, moving to intercept Malcolm's panic before it can hit Tim.
He hugs Malcolm, kissing him on the mouth since his forehead isn't as easy to reach any more. "It's okay, I'm okay, Tim..." Is not okay. "He came to visit and took me by surprise a little. It's okay."
“Oh. Because he came in the window?” He seems relieved. “You just have to learn the sound of his feet scrabbling up the drain pipe. He just likes coming in that way; it doesn’t mean anything.”
He looks at Tim. “I don’t think that was on my list.” As though he got anything on his list or even anything at all. “I think there’s still some…” he frowns and looks at Neal. “The round ones in like six neon colours?”
The reflexive need to protest that he doesn't scrabble up the drain pipe, he's a professional and as such he only scales the drain pipe.
But he doesn't anymore, huh.
Probably couldn't if he tried.
It leaves Tim feeling like every other word is muted, like the droning in his ears is deadset on making him deaf too. He shifts, a twitch of his body that's desperate to hide the mauled stump of a leg. To hell with the fire that wants to swallow him up; Tim knows nothing but retreat.
Tim didn't think he'd want to run away until just now.
But he couldn't even if he tried.
Malcolm looks to Neal. Tim hadn't even really noticed Neal's hand on him until now, when he turns to look at Neal too.
He hadn't planned some big reveal, he had just... not really thought about it. Because it wasn't some big deal.
Shit happens.
Tim hadn't been aware enough to escape the
he doesn't know, is the thing, so he's shifted to hide the
leg?
pant leg?
like he's supposed to be sitting crisscross but he's not because he can't and he's uh
"-h..."
Tim's just kinda looking at Neal like he'll be the one to make this make sense.
"No, actually, he came through the front door." He ignores the Rice Crispies questions for the moment. "He got hurt in Buffalo. He hasn't told me what happened yet, which is good, because he won't have to do it more than once if he doesn't want to."
The helpless look Tim gives him decides Neal. He feels like Tim should be the one who gets to say it, who gets to share the information, but he also doesn't think Tim is fully capable of doing it just now in a way that wouldn't minimize things unnecessarily or... Or.
Malcolm stares at Neal, then looks at Tim. At his leg that goes nicely to the floor and also the one he can now see beside it, stopping somewhere up the pantleg.
"Wh... how did that happen?" he asks Tim. "When did that happen? If you were in the hospital, why didn't you call us?"
Tim blinks and it's just like that: he's all caught up. Done processing. He's fine with this. This is fine. Malcolm is looking at him like he's not fine.
Tim, spurred on by irrational indignation, tells Neal, "I didn't lose it. I know exactly where it went."
--heh. He shifts again, this time so he can heavily rest is back against a very fluffy cushion. He addresses Malcolm with less hurry, no urgency.
"It didn't get eaten by the mouth painting. I will deck anyone who asks that. I did call from the hospital. Remember? I was working on... something. I got busy."
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Remind him why he's wearing a hoodie on a warm day, again?
He rolls his shoulders. Settles for staring up at the ceiling, because this moment of utter denial is going to come to a close soon isn't it?
--not on his watch.
"Nah, I'm good. Thanks," he lazily replies. Eyes closed. He's thirsty, but if he drinks then he'll have to pee, and that's also not gonna happen if he can hold it.
"I'm going to cash in on that favor now," he decides. And maybe he's already nodding off, what of it. "Don't let'm freak out too much about it. It's fine."
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Them, them being Malcolm and--does Jeff know? Tim is falling asleep. He can't ask him, can't deliberately wake the kid up when he's clearly exhausted.
Fuck, he needs to call Malcolm. Warn him, prepare him, so he can deal with at least some of his own processing before he sees the injury.
Except it's not an injury any more, is it? When does it stop being an injury and just become a fact?
Neal draws a deep breath, lets it go all at once. "I'm going to... turn up the air conditioning."
Tim is sweating and he needs a moment, and maybe the kid will fall asleep.
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“What’s going on? What happened?”
He’s just coming into the room and hasn’t seen Tim through Neal yet.
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He jolts awake, heart beating like fists pounding at his hollow chest, eyes wide and wild. But he's frozen, for a moment, so many things wrong with the picture ahead of him that he's forced to remember his training.
Blinking himself awake (ish), Tim scrambles to twist himself in the seat. A mess of hair obscures his sight, there's a burnstingpush where his leg isn't, and Tim peers at Malcolm, his body effectively hidden from... immediate scrutiny.
"--did you get any Rice Crispies?"
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He hugs Malcolm, kissing him on the mouth since his forehead isn't as easy to reach any more. "It's okay, I'm okay, Tim..." Is not okay. "He came to visit and took me by surprise a little. It's okay."
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He looks at Tim. “I don’t think that was on my list.” As though he got anything on his list or even anything at all. “I think there’s still some…” he frowns and looks at Neal. “The round ones in like six neon colours?”
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But he doesn't anymore, huh.
Probably couldn't if he tried.
It leaves Tim feeling like every other word is muted, like the droning in his ears is deadset on making him deaf too. He shifts, a twitch of his body that's desperate to hide the mauled stump of a leg. To hell with the fire that wants to swallow him up; Tim knows nothing but retreat.
Tim didn't think he'd want to run away until just now.
But he couldn't even if he tried.
Malcolm looks to Neal. Tim hadn't even really noticed Neal's hand on him until now, when he turns to look at Neal too.
He hadn't planned some big reveal, he had just... not really thought about it. Because it wasn't some big deal.
Shit happens.
Tim hadn't been aware enough to escape the
he doesn't know, is the thing, so he's shifted to hide the
leg?
pant leg?
like he's supposed to be sitting crisscross but he's not because he can't and he's uh
"-h..."
Tim's just kinda looking at Neal like he'll be the one to make this make sense.
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The helpless look Tim gives him decides Neal. He feels like Tim should be the one who gets to say it, who gets to share the information, but he also doesn't think Tim is fully capable of doing it just now in a way that wouldn't minimize things unnecessarily or... Or.
"He lost part of his leg."
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"Wh... how did that happen?" he asks Tim. "When did that happen? If you were in the hospital, why didn't you call us?"
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Tim, spurred on by irrational indignation, tells Neal, "I didn't lose it. I know exactly where it went."
--heh. He shifts again, this time so he can heavily rest is back against a very fluffy cushion. He addresses Malcolm with less hurry, no urgency.
"It didn't get eaten by the mouth painting. I will deck anyone who asks that. I did call from the hospital. Remember? I was working on... something. I got busy."